


Held in Trust

by pocketmouse



Category: Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buddy used to think the island was his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held in Trust

**Author's Note:**

> (written in July '05, just reposting it.)

Buddy used to think the island was his. He’d pushed Walter MacDonald off the docks by the ferry in third grade because he wouldn’t shut up about how stupid Wilby was and how he was going to go live on the mainland with his dad, because it was so much better there. When they went to Dover Beach in the summer, he always lagged behind his friends because he’d stop to pick up trash. He almost joined the Environmental Club in high school, but then Duck told him it was really just an excuse for the girls to get together, gossip, and try and flirt with Mr. Carter, the science teacher.

So he joined the baseball team. He quit hanging out reading books in the small tree fort he’d built in the copse of pines behind the house, and expanded on over the years. Instead he spent his time in the basement, cleaning up and trying out his father’s old weights. The smell of dust and metal and sweat mixed into the deteriorating padding of the seat of the old bench was addictive, and junior year he tried out for football, and when Josh Corkum flicked his cigarette and handed it off to him on the back porch at the homecoming party, he tossed his empty beer over the railing, and tried not to cough as he took a drag.

There was never any doubt that he’d come back to Wilby after college, though. Especially after his dad was diagnosed with lung cancer in November of his last year. He was all set to turn around and come back right then, but his mom and dad both insisted that he finish – he was so close. But he applied to the dean’s office for special dispensation, switched his Environmental Studies major to a minor, and graduated in December with a degree in Political Sciences.

Even though Wilby was as welcoming as ever, there were no jobs available, especially not when he was home a lot of the time, looking after his dad so mom could go back to teaching at the high school. He tried to learn how to cook, but his mom kept shooing him out of the kitchen, and kept it well-stocked so he didn’t have any excuses. So he watched her instead, and sat at the kitchen table grading book reports, or he sat in the rocker by the bed, a copy of _Strunk &amp; White_ in one hand and a pile of annotated bibliographies in his lap, listening to his father’s labored breathing, chewing on the cap to the pen.

When money got a little tighter, and the frown lines in his mother’s face began to look a little more set-in, Buddy started to worry. He was stuck in a place where he couldn’t help. Deena said he could always take up real estate – the last realtor had left looking for ‘better prospects’ – but he couldn’t really take the offer seriously. Besides, he couldn’t go away for more education.

So they sold the acre behind the house, just enough for a couple more months’ expenses. He sat on the porch, watching the bulldozers come in to clear away the trees. The construction workers were a rowdy bunch, and mainlanders, so the cars on the road kept slowing down as they drove past the house.

“Hey!” He started a little, and turned. One of the workers was approaching him, cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips. There was something in his hands. “’S this yours?” Carefully, Buddy took it. Robert Louis Stevenson. _Treasure Island_. The spine crackled as he opened it. “Found it under some old boards out there, in a plastic bag. Probably been out there a while.”

Buddy nodded absently. The pages were slightly yellowed, and warped beneath his fingers. He looked up. “Thank you.” The construction worker gave him a grin, then with a sharp nod, he spun on his heel and turned back towards the trees.

Then he stopped, and turned around again. “Hey, these trees – we were gonna just mulch ‘em, but do you want the guys to set some aside, for the fireplace, or whatever?”

Buddy glanced backwards, through the screen door, then out into the yard. “No, we don’t really use the fireplace any more. But thank you.” The man nodded and walked away again.

When Duck stopped by that night, Buddy was still on the porch, worrying the pages of the book. The light socket was being finicky again, and the light would flicker on and off rapidly, then stay on for a minute, then off for a while, then settle somewhere in between before starting all over again. Duck shuffled across the grass, then leaned against the yellow siding, one foot on the second step. His hands were shoved in his pockets.

“Hey, Buddy.”

“Hi Duck.”

“How’s your dad?”

Buddy shrugged. “He’s doing all right. But he’s refusing further treatment, so…” He kept his eyes focused on the spine of the book. The plastic laminate was starting to peel off. He picked at it. “They think he should move somewhere warmer.”

Peripherally, he could see Duck nodding. His feet shifted nervously. “Hey, uh… I know it’s not my place or anything, but I heard you guys were getting a little strapped for cash, and, well, there’s an opening down at the hardware store if you need it.”

Buddy looked up, surprised. Duck flashed him that quick, nervous grin that he hadn’t seen since sophomore year of high school, when Duck had kissed him behind the auditorium. “It’s not that big a store, Duck, there’s no room for a third person.”

Duck shook his head. “Naw, I quit. Gonna go into business for myself. Got a couple house-painting jobs lined up, and Mrs. Hillman needs her gutters cleared.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

He considered him. “Do you think Jimmy would mind if it were a part-time thing? I’m thinking of entering the police academy. Give something back to Wilby.”

Duck looked at him, his eyes suddenly darker. In the quiet, Buddy thought he could hear all the way down to the water. Then Duck spoke, almost warily. “Would you do right by Wilby? All of it?”

Buddy stared right back at him, something he hadn’t really done since he’d given Duck that black eye sophomore year. Going away for college had probably made some things easier. He wondered if this was one of them, or if it was just him. “I’d do right by it. It’s my island.”


End file.
